Scent
by divine one
Summary: She's looking for something to make her feel whole. He's looking for someone to make him feel wanted. Derek/Lydia.
1. Something

First time writing for this fandom... be gentle please.

Disclaimer on profile.

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There had been others since Jackson.

There had been a lot of 'others' since Jackson.

Some because they reminded her of him. Some because they didn't remind her of him. Some because they were normal, every day guys with no care for money or prestige. Some because they were smart – almost as smart as her. Some because they were dumb – dumber than he had been.

So, yes, there had been others since Jackson.

There had been a lot of 'others' since Jackson.

She stopped counting them when she hit the number 11. Eleven seemed like a nice round number to stop at.

Oh she didn't stop _finding_ others after that, but she did stop counting them. After eleven, the numbers didn't really matter anymore... after eleven, she got tired of counting. It was right around 'eleven' that she realized that she wasn't going to, somehow, at some point, hit a magic number and stop… stop... looking for 'others'. After eleven she realized that she was looking for something specific. Something that she couldn't find in the shade of their skin, or by looking in their eyes, or by listening to the timbre of their voice. So, instead, she crooked her finger, and she flipped her ginger locks, and the man, any man she was looking at, came running.

And then she had him. Sight, sound, scent and taste. And then, when she'd had him...

… nothing.

Minutes after they'd parted ways, she'd feel that ache in her gut again. The ache that whispered, 'more'.

It whispered until it was screaming.

Screaming as loud as she did when death was at the door.

And then she would need to start looking again; trying to find another 'other'.

Trying to find that specific, little/big, known/unknown, '**something**' that she needed.

(())

Scott looked at Derek as Lydia joined the rest of the pack, heading to 'her spot' in the corner of the room. He could smell the scent of at least two different men on her – one from within the past 24 hours and one from – he sniffed again – at least three days ago.

The frequency of the times that she arrived at the pack meetings covered with the scent of men - non pack men..., non platonic pack men – had been increasing. And at each meeting, Scott had watched Derek's reaction, seen his nostrils flare, seen his jaw tighten. The reactions disappeared almost as quickly as they appeared; he was pretty certain that Derek wasn't even aware that he was having these visceral responses to Lydia's presence. But the responses were there, and Derek's curmudgeonly, short-tempered attitude was was getting worse every day. Spending time with Derek – the original lone wolf – was always challenging, but during the past few months... really it was becoming ridiculous.

Scott pulled his eyes away from Derek and glanced at Lydia; intelligent, witty..., seemingly unbreakable Lydia.

He straightened his shoulders, it was his job to make certain that his pack was safe. Safe, and healthy and thriving.

And Lydia was not thriving. She was existing; but not thriving.

He looked back at Derek. And Derek, Derek wasn't doing much better.

Scott sighed, he was going to have to do something about this.


	2. Watchdog

WARNING SOME PEOPLE MIGHT FIND PART OF THIS CHAPTER TRIGGERY – IF RAPE/ATTEMPTED RAPE ARE TRIGGERS FOR YOU PLEASE DO NOT READ.

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He growled for the third time in the past hour. How Scott had managed to talk him into this, he didn't know. But somehow, for some reason, he'd spent the past two weeks, day and night, trailing 'princess' Lydia around town.

The spiel that Scott had used had faded; all Derek remembered now was Scott mentioning something about Peter, and a **possible** new big bad, and something about a 'scarlet goddess' **possibly** being at the center of the possible big bad's plans. All which had translated into the need for Lydia – their own personal red-headed goddess - to be protected.

Derek had been 'assigned' to be Lydia's 'watchdog' because 1) everyone else had classes or jobs all day long, and 2) Scott trusted Derek. "You're the strongest, most experienced member of the pack; she'll be safe with you around."

Derek shifted in the worn bucket seat of his car. If Scott only knew how unsafe Lydia really was around him, he might not have asked him to be her guard. Derek shifted again, actually, the scariest thing to come anywhere near Lydia in the past two weeks had been himself. Not that she was aware that he was around; Scott's little 'protect our banshee' plan had been put into place without Lydia's knowledge.

Which explained why Derek was sitting in his car, on the proverbial dark and stormy night, outside of some guy's apartment. A guy's apartment that contained Lydia.

He tightened his hands on the steering wheel; he wouldn't admit it to anyone, not even to himself, but the last two weeks had been torture. Not only because he'd had to follow Lydia into the local malls at least three times (four hour expeditions through a mall? REALLY?!), but because she'd been with at least 4 different men in that time frame... 5 if he included the one whose apartment she had entered twenty minutes ago.

Sitting outside of the homes of those men while she - did what she did with them - occasionally hearing... sometimes smelling... yeah... torture.

Against his will he sniffed the air again... rain... a bakery, about six blocks to the east... a couple of dogs and cats in nearby houses... men...children... women... and the unique, rarefied scent that was Lydia... Lydia and some man... only...

He cocked his head to the side and sniffed again; opening up that sense all of the way... He could smell Lydia, and the dickwad that she'd followed home, only Lydia's scent had changed... there wasn't the energy, or the heat..., or the arousal that he had gotten use to smelling. Instead, there was... there was... With a half howl Derek clawed his way out of his car. Leaving the door open without a second thought, he followed his nose and ran toward the apartment building that held Lydia.

(())

Okay, we women are damn stupid.

Now before you get your panties twisted, I think men are dumb as rocks too. So, I believe there is equal stupidity amongst the genders. We just tend to be stupid about different things.

Normally.

Of course, I say that while I'm seriously fighting off a jerk who I'd willingly followed home so that I could get myself a piece of ass.

Maybe women and men are stupid about the same things after all.

In the dim lighting of the bar, he'd seemed cute. And charming. And normal.

In the full-on lighting of his apartment, he was none of those things. As soon as I'd entered his house, I'd gotten a feeling – a feeling that had nothing to do with the tequila I'd had at the bar.

He'd offered me a drink, I'd accepted the glass of wine, pretending to sip at it when he looked my way. But I hadn't let the liquid touch my lips...

Instead... I'd laughed at his lame jokes, I'd stayed seated – my pepper spray filled purse close to my side – and waited for the 'right' moment to yawn a couple of times before edging my way out of 'creepy lame-man's' home. Only, after I began my fake yawns, his grin became wider and... scarier. And he went from creepy/lame to scary/lame.

When I made an attempt to get up from the couch, he reached for me, his hand clamping onto my wrist.

"Hey, hey there. If you're feeling tired, why don't you just settle back, finish your wine, relax."

"I think it would be better if I just went home." I try to pull my arm from his grasp, a grasp that tightens. "We should just rain check this... hanging out thing. "

He pulled at me, dragging me half on top of him. "No rain checks necessary, let's just cash this bill right now."

And that's when I knew, without a doubt, that he really wasn't a nice guy, and I really was in trouble, and I really, really was a stupid, stupid girl.

Our struggle was silent.

Silent except for a couple of hisses and grunts as I struggled to pull away from him while he tried to gain and maintain the upper hand.

For a few seconds I actually was winning our little tussle. The fact that he thought that I'd had whatever was in that glass of wine that he'd given to me, meant that he wasn't prepared for my resistance or my strength.

Yeah, I know, I'm a small gal, but I pack a mean damn punch.

I continued to feel like I stood a chance against him until he realized that the cocktail he'd mixed for me wasn't working – and then he put all of his strength into trying to get what he wanted. And here's the thing, even though I hang out with a whole bunch of supernatural heroes, and even though I have a little quirky/horrible power of my own, I myself, am not really any stronger than your average gal.

Want to know something else? Ever since I found out I was a Banshee, I've found it hard to scream. Oh I can, of course, scream when I see death coming, or when my friends are in danger, but, for myself? Screaming because I'm in danger or afraid? No. I can't do that anymore. My body won't let me.

I WANT to scream, I can feel it bubbling within me, but when I open my mouth... my breath is trapped... nothing comes out.

And seriously, for the girl who is known for her razor sharp tongue to be unable to make a sound - clearly something is wrong.

I push against his chest trying to get some leverage to push my frame away from his. As I shift to my left he pushes up from his semi prone position and flips us off of the couch. I land on my back, my head smacking against the hardwood flooring that lines his living room.

I literally see stars - floating, shooting, stars - and the breath that I have been holding bursts out of me in a short, harsh gasp.

One of his thighs is between my legs, and he's grasping at my wrists with one of his hands. With the air knocked out of me and his weight pressed against me, I can't breathe, I can't focus. I'm struggling, but my movements are disjointed and weak. I shake my head to clear it... but that only makes me dizzier.

He jerks his arm up and suddenly my wrists are above my head and his face is blocking the harsh brightness of the ugly overhead light that hangs from the middle of his living room ceiling. I close my eyes and turn my head, trying to pull my wrists out of his grip so that I can put my hands between us and hold him off.

I can feel the heat of his breath against my face, warm, and fetid and thick, and...

… then it's gone.

The heated breath, the grip on my wrists, the pressure of his weight... all of it is gone.

Above the sound of my own heavy breathing I now hear a growl and the sound glass and furniture breaking. And then there is silence.

I feel a presence in the room. A presence that I recognize. And I am soooooo happy, I could cry. But I refuse to cry... just like my throat had previously refused to release a scream of anger/or a call for help, I now refuse to give in and cry with relief.

I blink my eyes open, and this time, when the bright overhead light is shaded by a man's visage, I am happy to see that face...even though it is shrouded with anger.


End file.
